Chloe by Freya North Read Free Book Online Page B

So I’m told. He’s too big for me. Might suit you, though.’
    What could Chloë do but say ‘I see’?
    â€˜Boris, that grey Section B over there by the brook, his show name is Boris the Bold Mark Two. Which is daft really because he’s the biggest wimp out. He won’t even go over a cavaletti. But Basil, he’ll jump anything. I’ve jumped two foot six with a two-foot spread on him. And that was when I was just seven and three-quarters!’
    â€˜I see.’
    While Kerry wittered on about running martingales and French gags, Chloë allowed Percy’s sway to relax her. A gentle canter fixed a smile to her face and sharpened her senses to her new surroundings. The farm was set in a dimple amongst the hills and, from a viewpoint at the top of the wood, she could see that there was indeed a chimney smoking and a tractor crawling along the side of one field. The hills were soft and amiable, not nearly as bleak nor as black as she had anticipated.
    â€˜Too much Bruce Chatwin,’ she murmured distractedly.
    â€˜Isn’t he that showjumper?’ Kerry asked.
    The wood crept part way up a slope, rather like a beard. The floor of it was covered with pine needles and mulch – rather like bristles. It was soft underfoot and smelt heavenly. From the top, Chloë could see that the farm was relatively isolated. She could make out buildings way over the other side of the lane but these were so far away that it was impossible to tell whether they were merely barns and byres or a dwelling. No smoke from there. Rising in jagged steps beyond was the Skirrid mountain, most onomatopoeic.
    I’ll climb that one day. Maybe I’ll ride up. Would you like that, Percy?
    Gin Trap’s directions brought Chloë and Kerry back into the yard on the dot of four – she could pick out the chimes of a grandfather clock. It wasn’t coming from the house which was directly in front, but somewhere to her left. It was on entering the tack room that she discovered it, tocking patiently, brass pendulum swinging in a most leisurely fashion. Though she had been at Skirrid End for just over an hour, already the tack room seemed as good a place as any for a grandfather clock. Chloë bade goodbye to Kerry and said she could see no reason why she shouldn’t take her out on another hack on Sunday.
    â€˜Brilliant. Ask if you can ride Barnaby – he’s smashing. Liver chestnut, fourteen three, three-quarter Arab. Needs a kimblewick though.’
    â€˜I see.’
    The small of Chloë’s back nags ever so slightly. It tells her that five years has been an inordinate absence from the saddle. She rubs it tenderly and picks out the piece of chaff nestling in the corner of her mouth. She inhales deeply and closes her eyes. What is it?
    I think that’s bread.
    And?
    Something else. Everywhere. Fresh, clean air. Hang on, tractor diesel, just faintly, over there.
    And?
    Sheep? No, horse. Of course. And? Wet earth.
    Wales.
    Wales.
    She opens her eyes and takes a broad look around her. A smile breaks over her face and brings light into the darkening yard. Wales. As Peregrine said, a splendid idea. An hour and a half was all it had taken to feel settled, content and at home. And yet she had never been to Wales before. With the relaxed swagger of one who spends all day in the saddle down on the farm, Chloë saunters off towards the farmhouse, in search of hot bread and gingham tablecloths and this curious woman called Gin Trap. As she nears the porch, she sees a figure propped leisurely against it. It’s shadowy but it is most certainly a he. It must be the antipode.
    â€˜Yo, Chlo! I’m Carl.’
    Carl is possibly the best-looking man Chloë has ever set eyes on.

SEVEN
    Forty-five bowls.
    Forty-five side plates.
    Forty-five dinner plates.
    Forty-five dessert plates.
    Pale white glaze rimmed in blue, please.
    By Valentine’s Day.
    Many thanks. Thirty per